Home
by Phate Phoenix
Summary: It’s like having the anti-Jiminy Cricket on your shoulder OR House has a conversation with his greatly-less-pleasant-than-usual half. Spoilers through ‘HOUSE DIVIDED’.


**TITLE**: Home  
**AUTHOR**: Phate Phoenix  
**PAIRING**: House/Wilson  
**RATING**: PG-13  
**WARNINGS**: Spoilers through 'HOUSE DIVIDED'. Some disturbing thoughts.  
**SUMMARY**: It's like having the anti-Jiminy Cricket on your shoulder OR House has a conversation with his greatly-less-pleasant-than-usual half.  
**DISCLAIMER**: DO NOT OWN.  
**NOTES**: Occurs after House hangs up on Cuddy. Goes AU from there. This is probably be my last fic for a couple of weeks. I've got a lot of stuff to do and no time to do it. XD

--

It's been hours since he hung up the phone on Cuddy and his team. It's been hours since he cursed himself for throwing away the sleeping pills Wilson prescribed him. It's been hours since he gave up on actually sleeping through this night. It's been hours, and Amber just won't stop.

"…And _that_ is why the kid has eosinophilic pneumonitis." She pauses. "House, did you hear me? Maybe I should go over the symptoms again…"

House glares fruitlessly at his television set, although he can't focus on anything coming out of the speakers, even if he blasts the volume. Her voice just drills into his skull. "I'm _not listening to you_," he grits out.

She stands a few feet from the couch, her arms hanging. She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "That's real mature, House. Even your subconscious says so."

House jabs the power button on the TV remote and thrusts himself out of his seat. "God, _shut up_!" he snaps, limping to the other side of the room. Amber simply walks after him.

"Why?" she asks, smirking. "I thought we made a great team."

House glares at the blonde woman following him around his apartment. "You tried to _kill Chase_!" He grabs a book from his coffee table and throws it at her. Even though it goes through her midsection, House is obscenely pleased by the disgruntled look on her face. She sneers at him, her eyes flashing coldly.

"_You_ tired to kill Chase." She's suddenly beside him, and House can feel her fingers pressing against his temple. "I'm all up here, remember?" she breathes into his ear. House snarls, lashing out with his cane and knocking over a lamp. She giggles, leaning her back against his piano.

"Strawberries, House. Strawberries," she whispers, but it's loud enough to be a scream in House's head. She watches him, smiling. "How clever of you. No one would ever think of it. A perfect murder."

House clamps his hands over his ears, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "Why would I want him dead? I don't _care_ if he's happy. I don't care."

"Sure you do," Amber purrs, and the sound goes straight into his brain. She's resting her hands on his shoulders. "If they're happy, then why would they want to spend time with the miserable cripple? Misery loves company, right?" She wraps her arms around his chest and rests her head on top of his shoulder. "You're just trying to find some company."

House glares at the floor, dropping his arms. "I thought I worked best alone?"

Amber only smiles, shrugging. "Humans are social creatures—it's not strange that you should want to form a group of sorts. A perpetuating chasm of misery with you at its heart." She pauses. "Or, rather, the rancid, blackened area that _used_ to be a heart."

House closes his eyes, shaking his head. "Why would I kill Chase then? Why not kill Cameron?"

Amber shrugs and walks around him, her fingernails trailing across his shoulders. "Crime of opportunity," she says. "If you had been helping Cameron pick out placemats, you would have managed to orchestrate her getting hit by a car, or being crushed under a carpet."

House growls at her, limping from the living room to the kitchen. Amber is leaning against his refrigerator she's staring at the kitchen light House has yet to turn on. "And Cuddy? Oh, she'd be _so easy_ to break." House stares at her, eyes widening. Amber looks straight at him. "There are a multitude of chemicals that you could use to replicate Sudden Infant Death Syndrome…"

House feels the blood drain from his face, realizing he already has seven listed in his mind. Amber nods, pushing herself from the fridge and towards him, smiling wickedly. "She'd be all yours again. You wouldn't have to share her with anyone." She strokes his face, her smile becoming gentler. "She'd never want children again, so there would never be any competition…"

House jerks himself away from her and flees the kitchen. He turns down the hallway towards the bathroom and curses—she's browsing through his bookshelf a few feet away. She glances at him, smiling. "Foreman would be simple, too—any number of chemicals can exacerbate Thirteen's condition. Put some in the coffee grounds. Sure, the whole team might get a little sick, but she'll be the one to die. Foreman would be devastated."

She turns toward him and begins to walk. "Taub only needs a little _push_," she says, miming the action. "His home life is a wreck, he has monetary problems, and his friend just killed himself." Amber pauses right in front of House and leans in. "A bit more pressure at work would be enough, House. A few more short jokes, nose jokes, balding jokes, threaten his job a few more times and… _poof_!" She wiggles her fingers in demonstration.

House spins around and darts towards his living room again, trying to keep just how _easy_ all of it would be out of his mind. How simple it would to make them all as miserable as he was. How well he knew all of them to know just where to strike. He grits his teeth and shakes his head.

"No."

Amber laughs at him, suddenly leaning against the back of House's couch. "You wouldn't even need to do anything about Wilson," she says. "He's miserable enough as it is."

House scowls at her. "Wilson went through a dark patch awhile back, but he's _better_ now." He pauses, his eyes dropping to the side. "He came back," he affirms.

Amber laughs again.

"Because he was _bored_!" Amber says. "He _told_ you that. Face it," she sneers at him, "you lost him when you _killed_ me."

"I…" House's mouth is suddenly dry. "I didn't kill you! It was an accident!"

Amber raises an eyebrow at him. "Do you really believe that? If you hadn't been a drunkard, if you had been a better friend, if you hadn't been an ass, all of this could have been avoided. _You killed me_, and Wilson couldn't care less about you." She smirks at him.. "You lost him to _me_, and you _can't—have—him—back_."

House's face flushes, eyes narrowing. "You _died_. When your brain shut down, you passed over all rights to him to _me_." He leers, leaning forward. "It was party of the custody agreement."

Amber smirks at him, pushing away from his couch. "But he doesn't _want_ to live with Daddy," she whines, her blue eyes bright. She leans towards him, and their faces are inches apart. "He barely comes over here anymore. He likes my place better."

House scowls at her. "He _lives_ at your place."

"See?" she says. "I win." She circles around him, like a shark in bloody waters. "You had that once, you know," she says, walking away from House and towards the couch again. She ran her fingers the red surface. "He was _right here_." She grins over her shoulder. "Of course, you both sabotaged and attempted to perpetuate his stay at your place _at the same time_. You're incredibly messed up."

House sneers at her. "I'm hallucinating a _dead woman_. Yeah, I'd say I was a mess, too."

Amber frowns at him. "You know what I mean," she says, gesturing. "You want to drive Wilson away, and yet you want him to be close enough to touch." She smiles. "It's cute in an obsessive-stalker kind of way." She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "At least I had the guts to go out and get him. And then he abandoned you for my _memory_—"

"He came back," House snarls. "No matter what, he came back. He wouldn't have come back for _you_!"

Amber blinks several times and House limps forward. "It's true, and _I_ know it." He pauses, eyes widening. Amber takes a half-step back, and House pursues her. "You—" he points at her with his cane, smirking, "—are the visual representation of all my thoughts that the rest of my brain kicks out, aren't you? All of the thoughts I usually filter through." Amber says nothing, but House presses forward. "The cochlear implant was _your_ idea. I don't _care_ about the patient. It was a stupid idea that had no purpose to help or hinder. _I_ tossed it out, and _you_ caught it."

He jabs his cane at her again, and Amber retreats a few paces backwards. "The asthma medication. It was Salbutamol, right?" Amber says nothing. "_You_ suggested we give him a high dose. Enough to cause hypokalemia." He sneers. "Hypokalemia can cause cardiac arrhythmias, which would have made _your_ guess of a heart problem magically appear." House grins, turning away from her and limping back towards the couch.

"All of your suggestions are merely whims of my mind that I've thought about at one point or another. Things I _know_ I can do," he says, feeling the dread lifting from his chest. Amber appears suddenly, sitting on his coffee table.

"What about Chase?" she says, eyeing him critically. "You _knew_ about both the body cream _and_ Chase's allergies. What other explanation is there?"

House smirks at her, sitting down and calmly placing his feet through her lap. "Elementary, my dear… hallucination," he chirps. She huffs, jumping up and walking next to his television set. House leans back, grinning at her. "Coincidence."

"You hate coincidences!" Amber snaps. House shrugs.

"Except when they make sense," he responds. "How likely is it," he begins, "that a stripper that I saw _once_, nine years ago, would use the same type of body lotion?" Amber stammers for a few moments, but House quickly jumps in. "Exactly. Not damn likely at all. It's a piss-poor murder plan if it counts on several different highly unlikely factors falling into place." He sneers at her. "You were right once, though."

Amber leans her head to the side. "Oh?"

House nods, looking at the television. "Guilt is what's brought you to the forefront of my mind. Why else would I automatically leap to the thought that _I_ was trying to kill Chase?" He chuckles humorlessly. "And I thought Wilson had the guilt complex." He folds his hands in front of his face, leaning his mouth against them. "I pride myself on catching things," he mumbles through his fingers, "and I missed something so important."

Amber's lips twist into a wicked smile, her eyes darkening. "You think you've figured it all out. That I'm merely the part of your mind for ideas you discard." House stares at her, unimpressed. She walks towards him and sits down on the coffee table again, just by House's feet. "Then think about this," she whispers, leaning forward.

"If it was merely guilt, wouldn't you just see Kutner?" She frowns slightly, her eyes softening. "Why are you seeing _me_?"

There's a loud banging noise from behind him, and House flinches. It takes several seconds before he realizes that someone is pounding on his door.

"House!" the voice calls. "House, open the door!"

House glances at Amber, who is staring at the door with an utterly confused look on her face. "Wilson?" she says. "What is he doing here? At this hour?"

House ignores her and pushes himself to his feet. "Why don't you use your keys?" he calls out to the other man.

Wilson makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a chuckle and a sob. "Oh, I don't have them on me right now." There's a gentle thud against the door. "Just… open the door."

House makes his way to the door, frowning. "Why aren't you at your apartment?" he asks, unlocking the door and opening it. As the man behind it comes into view, House finds he can't speak.

Wilson, red-faced, looks at House through wide brown eyes. His shirt is buttoned up where the buttons remain, which isn't so odd. House, however, cannot get past Wilson's utter lack of pants and his bare feet.

"House, can I come in?" the oncologist asks pathetically. House merely steps aside, still gawking. "Thank you," Wilson says, sliding past him and into the living room. House closes and locks the door before turning around again.

"Wilson… you do realize—?"

Wilson has a hand over his face. "Yes," he says, though muffled somewhat by his hand, "I realize I am _not_ wearing pants."

"Right," House says. "Just wanted to be sure." He leans forward, sniffing Wilson. "You still smell like alcohol…"

Wilson drops his hand and marches around the other man. "Yeah, that would be because when I left my apartment, it was still a party."

House gapes. "You _walked_ here?!"

From behind his piano, Amber chirps, "You always said he wasn't the brightest bulb."

House ignores her completely.

"I know," Wilson says, sounding somewhat awed. "I didn't even know I knew _how_ to walk here."

House walks past him and towards his bedroom. He gestures for the other to follow. "Let's get you some sweatpants. And some socks. And a new shirt."

Wilson chuckles but follows him anyway. "What? You're not going not going to mock me for this?"

House shrugs. "In a minute. I want to hear how you managed to get from your place to mine." He pokes open the door to his bedroom and studiously ignores Amber lounging on his bed.

"He walked," she says. "Probably got lost."

Instead, House points to his closet. "Get some clothes on and meet me in the living room," he says. He smirks at the oncologist's wide eyes and gaping mouth. "I have _got_ to hear this story."

House spins around and limps towards the living room. Amber bursts out of the bathroom and walks a few paces ahead of him, backwards. "You can't just ignore me, House," she growls. "I won't go away if you don't talk to me. I won't disappear if your close a door. I won't stop talking just because you _think_ you've got it all figured out."

House, despite all her words, merely brushes by Amber and sits down on the couch closest to the bedroom. She sits down on the piano bench, glaring at him. "Why _me_?" she demands.

House snickers, finally, and looks back at her. He says, slowly, "No matter who you are, what you say, or what you try to make me do," he looks towards the bedroom, "Wilson will _always_ be more important."

"House, did you say something?" Wilson calls. House smirks.

"Yeah—how many doctors does it take to put on a pair of pants?"

There's a snort of laughter. "Why? You think I need help?"

"I dunno, do you?"

"No," Wilson says, coming into the room, "I think I've got it handled." House glances at him, raising an eyebrow.

"I thought you'd go for the sweatshirts for sure," he says, eyeing the faded green t-shirt Wilson chose and the scruffy black sweatpants with the worn-out crotch, "and did you _try_ to find the worst pair of pants I own?"

Wilson rolls his eyes and walks over to the couch. He pauses by the lamp that House knocked over earlier and shoots House an intrigued look. "Did you trip?" he asks and picks it up. As he fixes the lampshade and set it back on the table, Amber appears beside him, looking at Wilson through half-open eyes. House watches curiously as she attempts to touch Wilson's face, but her fingers merely fade through him. Suddenly, Wilson looks up, brows furrowed.

"House, did you hear me?"

House blinks twice before turning back to Wilson. He shakes his head. "Tried to swat a fly earlier. I missed. Twice."

Amber scoffs, planting her hands on her hips. Wilson glances at him as he plops down on the couch. "Are we talking a metaphorical fly, or a real fly?"

House quirks an eyebrow at him. "Are we ever metaphorical?"

"With you, House, everything means something else." Wilson gestures at the TV. "Nothing on?"

House shrugs. "Nothing any good. Besides," he turns to Wilson with a large smile, "I thought you were going to tell me all about your little trek over here."

Wilson smiles wanly. "Of course," he mumbles, leaning his head back against the couch. With a put upon sigh, he looks over at House. "I remember most of the party," he admits, slowly. "I remember… Karamel." He manages to both wince and look wistful at once. "Lots and lots of Karamel. I also remember lots and lots of alcohol." He frowns, narrowing his eyes. "I don't remember seeing you though."

House waves his hand, chancing a glance to where Amber currently is—sitting in his by the television. "I was around," he says. He smirks at Wilson. "Just because I don't stalk you _all_ the time…"

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Right. Silly me. Anyway," he looks at the darkened TV, "after I hit the bar for a third helping of bourbon ice cream, it gets rather fuzzy." He pauses. "I think I lost my pants rather soon after that."

Amber whistles. "That's impressive. I'm amazed he didn't drop."

"But anyway," Wilson says, "I remember taking one more shot from Karamel—"

"From or _off_?"

"—Fine, _off_ Karamel, and watching Doctor Hadley take one—"

"I _missed that_?!"

Wilson glares at him. "Are you going to listen or not?" House gestures for him to continue, and Wilson smiles. "Thank you. So, after that… I left."

House stares at him. "You… left."  
Wilson shrugs. "Yeah. I needed to get some air, so I left my apartment."

"And what?" House asks, smirking. "Took a few too many wrong turns?"

"No I…" Wilson stops and looks at his hands. Amber leans forward, tilting her head slightly.

"He's uncomfortable," she says. "Touch him."

House knows he shouldn't listen to her—she's already almost killed not only his patient, but Chase, too—but he can't stop himself from nudging Wilson's shoulder gently with his own. Wilson starts and looks up at him, blinking a few times. House raises an eyebrow at him and Wilson smiles.

"It's going to sound ridiculous," he admits, rubbing the back of his head nervously and averting his gaze once more.

House snorts. "Even more ridiculous than you telling a duck that you've never loved anyone more, and that you didn't want to marry anyone that wasn't that duck?"

Wilson clears his throat. "Well, it _was_ a fine looking specimen…"

"It was also a drake."

Wilson shrugs, but his eyes were bright with laughter. "What can I say? I'm a progressive thinker." He then exhales, running a hand over his face before looking straight at the television. He glances at House out of the corner of his eye. "I… I wanted to go _home_."

House frowns, raising an eyebrow. "You were so drunk, you forgot the party was at your apartment?" He knows he's missing something. That can't be it. Unless… "Did you want to see your mother? Go all the way back home and see them?"

Wilson shakes his head, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "I only ever had one destination in mind when I left my apartment." Wilson smiles, looking over at House, and raises his eyebrows. House frowns at him.

"Then why did you change your mind and come here?" he asks. Wilson chuckles, looking out the window just above House's piano.

"I never changed my mind. For a genius, you can be so slow."

And then it hits him. House's eyes widen and his brows furrow. He looks hard at Wilson. "Here?" he asks, gesturing around his apartment. "_This_ is… _home_?"

Wilson shrugs, looking around the place with a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, it is," he says.

Amber leans against the couch's armrest, breathing into House's ear. "If I represent all the ideas, thoughts, plans, you've discarded, why do I look Wilson's dead girlfriend?"

Wilson chuckles again, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You know what they say about home, right?" he asks, looking at House. House keeps his eyes on him. Amber's still breathing in his ear.

"_Why me_?"

"It's where the heart is."

House stares at him, feeling his mind rushing through the information. Why Amber? Why his apartment? Why now?

"Are…" House starts, licks his lips, and tries again, "are you drunk?"

Wilson shrugs. "Only a little. The walk sobered me up quite a bit. Besides…" he pauses, looking up at the ceiling. "Being drunk… doesn't _change_ who you are," he says and looks back at House.

Amber pushes her forehead against his temple. "I'm you, House. I'm _you_. But why am I _me_? Why _me_?"

"It just… reveals it."

House can hear the 'click' as everything falls into place. His mouth opens, staring at Wilson, who is currently looking at him with a calmness that House envies. Ideas, thoughts, plans, fantasies that he'd tossed away long ago, decided were illogical, useless, _painful_, resurface and explode in his mind, bombarding him with almost-forgotten desires. For a moment, he's lost in an information overload.

Amber remains by his ear.

"Kiss him."

His hands immediately twitch outward before the rest of his brain can stop him, latching onto Wilson's shoulders. Wilson's eyes widen, his hands shooting up to grab onto House's forearms. "House?" he says quickly. "What… what are you…?"

House narrows his eyes slightly. "Quiet," he murmurs, and pulls Wilson to him.

Their lips squish together like two halves of a sandwich and there's just as much movement. As House stares into Wilson's wide and bewildered eyes, he wonders if listening to a psychosis was such a good idea. He closes his eyes tightly and pulls back slightly, feeling a throbbing ache in his chest. He can't bear to see whatever is going through the eyes of his _very straight_ best friend.

"Wilson—"

And the lips are back, causing House's eyes to snap open. Wilson's eyes are staring into his, and House sees a firmness there that makes the ache in his chest transform into feathery tickles inside his stomach. House can't help but close his eyes. Wilson's hands migrate from his forearms, up his shoulders and neck, and through his hair before stopping. House immediately places his hands on the sides of Wilson's face and brings them as close as he can. House opens his mouth slightly, and Wilson's tongue darts inside.

A low moan slips out of House's throat and into Wilson's mouth, and he feels the other man shiver in response. His nose bumps against Wilson's as House moves his head to get better access, causing the other man to grunt and more firmly grip his head. House can't taste anything but _Wilson_, can't smell anything but _Wilson_, can't hear anything but _Wilson_'s rapid wheezing through his nose. His world has become _Wilson_—or, maybe, it's been like that all along.

Wilson's tongue flicks upwards, tickling the top of House's mouth before pressing down and onto House's tongue. House groans again, sucking on Wilson's tongue. Wilson hums his pleasure, gently rubbing the back of House's neck. This… whatever it is, is wonderful, House decides, and he doesn't ever want it to stop.

But then, it does.

Wilson gently releases House's head, pulling his tongue free from House's mouth. House's hands drift from Wilson's face and down his chest. He can feel Wilson's heart racing in his chest. They part, gasping, a moment later. House opens his eyes quickly and spies Wilson's own dark brown eyes looking back at him. House smirks at him, raising his eyebrows.

"I can't believe I once thought that was stupid idea," he says quietly. Wilson snickers back at him, leaning his shoulder against House's.

"I had no idea…" Wilson says softly, looking forward. "I thought it was just me…"

House shrugs, leaning against Wilson with equal weight. "You had me fooled," House says, smiling. "Enough that my mental filter drop kicked the idea out of sight. Thought you were _completely_ straight."

Wilson chuckles, resting his head against their shoulders. "What changed?"

House glances over at where Amber is still sitting, smiling. "_Now_ you've figured it out," she whispers. She then winks at him once, smirking. "Have fun."

And then she's gone, as if she'd never been there. House smiles, because he knows she's been there all along.

"I had some help going through my garbage."

Wilson glances at him, eyebrows raised. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

House smirks at him. "And I doubt you ever will."

Wilson sighs, closing his eyes and resting there. "You trashed my apartment," he says, sounding less annoyed and more amused. "I'm staying here tonight," he declares. "In your bed."

House doesn't even hesitate to rest his head against Wilson's.

"Welcome home."


End file.
